


If My Heart Was A House You'd Be Home

by Creme13rulee



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 07:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18734278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creme13rulee/pseuds/Creme13rulee
Summary: Written for Okaeri zineEveryone was excited when the announcement came. But not Viktor Nikiforov. Moving the Rostelecom Cup to St. Petersburg, and assigning Yuuri AND the entire Russian team… except Viktor.  Yuuri does suspiciously  well...and Viktor realizes what a hometown advantage means.





	If My Heart Was A House You'd Be Home

  
  


It would be easier to consider it a punishment. If only he knew what he’d done wrong . it was his third year coaching, living with Yuuri in Viktor’s home country. Yuuri was doing great; Viktor was doing well. They had already chosen a wedding date and made a Life Plan for retirement.

 

Viktor was happy. 

 

So this shouldn’t have bothered him.

 

But it did.

 

“You’ll have the hometown advantage,” Viktor chirped, an hour after announcements had come out. He swore that Yuuri fed off his emotions sometimes, even if Yuuri didn’t know it.

 

“It’s not home,” Yuuri said too quickly, tightening the laces on his skate.

Viktor’s stomach dropped.

 

“Hm?” He felt his media smile spring onto his face. The one Yuuri hated.

 

“You’re not skating with me, so it’s not home.” Yuuri tapped his feet on the ground before standing up. His  head tilted to the side. One of his Yuuri-isms. Viktor loved them all.

 

Viktor pulled Yuuri to his chest, hugging him tightly against him.

 

“Yuuri, I love you.”

 

“I know,” Yuuri said, before breaking into a quiet giggle. He traced Viktor’s lips with his finger, before placing a sweet kiss to them. “I love you too,” he whispered, before slipping away to step onto the ice.

 

~

 

Yuuri seems exceptionally calm during Opening Ceremonies, even though the first Men’s Singles event is in a mere two hours. Perhaps driving home has helped — Viktor made them lunch while Yuuri sat at the table with Makkachin’s head in his lap, earbuds tucked into his ears. 

Yuuri’s anxiety usually starts early, thrumming through his veins before building into a crescendo the closer and realer the cause becomes. But Yuuri doesn’t shiver or shake. He just sits curled into Viktor’s side, wrapped in his team jacket, and his hands slip into the pocket of Viktor’s wool coat.

“Don’t worry about your combo in your second half. Downgrade it, it’s still early in the season,” Viktor says, just to get Yuuri to look at him.  

“I can’t. If I aim lower, I’ll miss the podium. You know Georgi has a quad in his second half.” Yuuri’s eyes narrow. Viktor knows Yuuri won’t listen to him, but his aim is to get Yuuri to talk, not to simplify his program last minute.

 

“Georgi listens to his coach,” Viktor manages to say it with a straight face. Yuuri’s lips curve into a smile, and he turns back to Viktor again.

 

“I know you don’t, and you’re the Living Legend. What kind of example is that?”

 

Viktor answers with a shrug. Yuuri still doesn’t have complete confidence in himself, but at least he isn’t shaking like a leaf. It is strange — because during Nationals their Facetime call had given Viktor vertigo with how much the camera had shaken in Yuuri’s hands. It had been Yuuri’s home turf, and they had only been separated twenty-four hours. They may be competing on a familiar rink, but that couldn’t explain the blanket of calm surrounding Yuuri.

 

Viktor doesn’t dare bring it up until Yuuri is done skating. The last thing he needs is Yuuri worrying about worrying Viktor and losing the tentative progress in his confidence.

 

Yuuri doesn’t seem to amp up in the green room, or even by the boards when it comes to his turn. He lets Viktor unzip his jacket and straighten his costume. It’s another one Viktor designed and commissioned with Yuuri in mind. It is mostly black, clinging to Yuuri in all the right places, filmy chiffon dripping off his body at the neck and sleeves. The dark  fabric is covered in Swarovski in colors to mimic starlight: twinkling midnight blue, purple and silver catch the light with every movement. Viktor had hidden the bill from Yuuri, wanting to see his honest reaction to the costume without numbers attached to it.

 

Yuuri looks directly into Viktor’s eyes when he smooths on the lip balm, taking extra care and time to sweep it on to Yuuri’s plump bottom lip.

 

“Ganba, Yuuri,” Viktor whispers, touching his forehead to Yuuri’s.

 

Yuuri answers with a quick kiss, before pushing off the boards and gliding to the center of the rink.

 

He steps off the ice exuberant, having ignored Viktor’s rambling and scoring enough to come in second with a twenty point lead. Viktor follows Yuuri to the Kiss and Cry, stunned, crushing the Makkachin tissue box in his hands.

 

“Go get changed,” Viktor says after pulling Yuuri from the Press. Yuuri digs his heels in, putting his weight onto his feet to drag Viktor to a stop.

 

“I want you to take it off me,” Yuuri whispers into Viktor’s ear when he stops, confused and on the edge of irritation.

 

There’s no way he can say no.

 

Viktor waves a taxi down, too impatient to wait for the valet to bring his car up from the garage. His cheeks burn when Yuuri’s hands wander, and they kiss in the backseat. They make it through the door before Viktor pulls at the zipper at the back of Yuuri’s neck down with his teeth. Makkachin dances around their legs, whining and licking at their legs when they don’t return her greeting. There’s still another day of competing and a gala the day after, but the future melts away under Yuuri’s touch.

 

As always, Viktor is the first one to wake up in the morning. Yuuri sleeps on, wrapped up like a burrito in blankets stolen from Viktor. Yuuri is the reason why Viktor’s heating bills have gone up and why his bed is piled high with three extra blankets. It’s a price Viktor would pay a thousand times over.

Viktor busies himself into the kitchen, heating the samovar and readying his French press. Yuuri is also infinitely more pleasant in the mornings when met with coffee, kisses be damned.

By the time Viktor has a plate of eggs and coffee (two sugar cubes and filled to the top with cream, like how Yuuri likes it) he is too late. Yuuri’s feet thump on the hardwood floor, the roll of blankets walking until meeting Viktor’s chest. Yuuri presses his face into Viktor’s chest, his soft cheek absorbing the soft rhythm of Viktor’s heartbeat.

 

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Viktor sings. Yuuri grunts in reply, wrapping his arms and his blanket cape around Viktor. Makkachin joins in, climbing up their bodies until her paws rest on top of Yuuri’s hand. Viktor’s heart squeezes at Yuuri’s soft sigh of contentment and the sparks that shimmer up his nerves when Yuuri nuzzles him. He debates whether or not Yuuri really needs morning practice before deciding he can’t be that selfish this early in his coaching career. Today is the last event Yuuri will compete in, and they have the rest of their lives to ravish each other. Viktor is so busy daydreaming about their future that he misses the beginning of Yuuri’s sentence.

 

“...Seventh?” Viktor blinks, earning a sour look from Yuuri’s nest in his shirt.

 

“Seventh Gold. If I do good today,” Yuuri mumbles.  

 

“ _ When  _ you do well.” Viktor smiles, smoothing back Yuuri’s hair. Bedhead makes him even cuter, but today’s version is falling into his eyes. Yuuri doesn’t bite, instead curling his fingers around the mug on the counter and closing his eyes to drink in the scent of freshly brewed coffee.

 

“You’re taking longer to wake up today, love.” Viktor teases his fingers through Yuuri’s hair after a few moments of quiet sipping.

 

“I’m not as nervous,” Yuuri answers simply, his dark lashes lifting as Viktor’s eyes drift back to him.

 

“You’re a homebody, aren’t you? Even after moving overseas. Twice.” Viktor hums. He gets another shrug from Yuuri, his cheeks glowing a delicious pink.

 

Any discomfort from the disappearance of Yuuri’s nervous tics  is smashed when Yuuri wins gold by a thirty point margin. It isn’t a world record, but the taste of victory is sweet on Yuuri’s lips. The medal is cold when Viktor kisses it. Yuuri still won’t let Viktor hold it or kiss him until he kisses the medal first. He dodges Viktor’s attempts even a year after reaching their goal and setting a wedding date. Yuuri dances away, light on his feet, his laughter bubbling out of him without a drop of liquor in his veins. That state doesn’t last long — Mila and Georgi pull Yuuri, and by proxy, Viktor, toward the garage with promises of celebratory drinks on their dime. 

Every time Viktor tries to talk, his eyes meet Yuuri’s shining eyes and the words dissolve on his tongue. He tries three times, until it is too late. They get the car, the keys digging into Viktor’s palms. The scent of flowers blends in with old gasoline. Yuuri is always an angel, but the look on his face makes him especially hard to deny. The congratulatory bouquet is shoved to the backseat, between Mila and Georgi while they bicker in Russian. Viktor can’t let his heart sink, not when Yuuri looks this happy and free. Mila kicks the back of Viktor’s seat, telling him to pull over when they drive through the red light district.  

 

Yuuri stays close to Viktor until he’s on his fifth drink, and Mila peels him away, dragging him onto the dance floor. Yuuri is a great partner to anyone; even drunk he manages to spin and dip Mila without dropping her. A spark of jealousy erupts within Viktor when a nameless and faceless woman tries to grind against Yuuri. Viktor quickly squashes it down when Yuuri tumbles back, oblivious, his eyes searching the crowd until his entire being lights up when he finds Viktor. Yuuri bounces around in the crowd before swaying into Viktor’s lap, tracing an enticing finger along his jaw line.

 

Viktor wants to drink too, to laugh and smile as easily as Yuuri does. It would be easy to let loose and give in to it all. But Yuuri’s missing anxiety has lingered in Viktor’s body. They didn’t stop to change, and Yuuri’s medal still hangs around his neck. Mila is a forgetful drunk, and Viktor has never been drunk with Yuuri and returned home with the the clothing he left with. Meanwhile, Georgi was banned from Uber for his drinking habits a full year before this competition even happened.

Viktor is Yuuri’s coach. His badge still hangs around his neck, and he’s more put together than anyone else in the club. He has to make sure that Yuuri gets home, gold still around his neck and with his dignity still in check.

 

“Viktor..u… Viktoru, you are so… so…  _ kakkoyoka…” _ Yuuri slurs on their way to the next bar. He hooks his finger into Viktor’s collar, relishing in the blush on Viktor’s chest.

 

“I don’t know what that means, Yuuri.” Viktor chuckles. He knew, only because of a night with Minako, Yuuri and a bottle of shochu. It was the same night that Minako confessed that she had trained Yuuri out of his local accent once he had showed promise for an international debut. Yuuri’s rehearsed standard Japanese had made it easier for Yuuri to learn — but not for him to understand anyone else in Hasetsu. He stubbornly kept out of it, except, of course, when drunk.

 

“Kakkok...kakko..yo… Cool! Cool. So cool.” Yuuri, though unable to walk in a straight line, still manages to move forward with a dancer’s grace.

 

“Oh? What else am I?” Viktor smirks. Yuuri pauses, shoving Viktor back against a concrete building. Mila and Georgi had already disappeared inside. 

 

“Hansamu.. Hand… some.. And… beautiful.. And...” Yuuri’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Happy.”

 

“I very much am happy, Yuuri,” Viktor cooes, pressing a kiss to Yuuri’s cheek. He was such an adorable mess.

 

“No.  _ I’m _ happy.” Yuuri growls, resting his cheek against Viktor’s chest just like he did earlier that morning. “Home.”

 

“You want to go home?” Viktor cranes his neck to try to see Yuuri’s face. Instead, Yuuri nuzzles away, tracing messy shapes onto the fabric of his shirt.

 

“No. I feel… home.” Yuuri struggles with the words, but it can’t be entirely blamed on the alcohol. Yuuri is a doer, not a sayer. Viktor would say a hundred I-love-yous in a day, while Yuuri said it in actions. He said it in a skate made just for Viktor, with gentle touches and loving looks. He did it by returning home from shopping trips with sweets or flowers or knick knacks that reminded him of Viktor. 

 

“We are still in St. Petersburg, love.” Viktor sighs. Staying outside with Yuuri is vastly preferable than sipping soda at a bar. Being sober is no fun when there was no one to be sober with you.

 

“I know,” Yuuri answers sweetly. “That’s why I’m gold.” Yuuri’s lips curve into a smile at Viktor’s incredulous laugh. “No jet lag. No sleeping over. I got more time with you.”

Viktor’s heart skips a beat. “You mean… at home. Because we had lunch together?”

 

“And dinner, and bed...you weren’t off skating or moving luggage...” Yuuri rambles before shaking his head like a wet dog, as if that would clear it. “You were there, so I felt good. So I did good. Right?”

 

“Uh-huh,” Viktor says slowly, nodding his head. “You did amazing.”

 

“Because I had Viktor. You’re my home.”

 

Tears spring to Viktor’s eyes, a wave of emotion crashing over him. Yuuri smiles dazedly up at him, touching his cheek before the smile drops entirely.

 

“Yuuri?”

 

“ ’m gonna be sick.”

 


End file.
